


When The East Wind Passes

by SophiaRemembers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophiaRemembers/pseuds/SophiaRemembers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why did he pick the worst time in his life to be so ordinary?" When London's only consulting detective passes, John and Mary must find a way to move on with their life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End

              

  Silence surrounded him. People spoke, of that he was aware, but he wasn’t hearing any of it. Any noise that reached his ears was nothing more than a distant echo that he blocked from mind. It was nearing the end of summer and the warmth still dominated the days, but the air surrounding him was chilly and frozen. Or perhaps that was just his own skin. Mary’s hand in his should have been comforting, and in a way it was as it provided the only source of warmth he could feel at the moment, but it was still small and he gripped her hand tighter, hoping to drag in some of that heat and keep it for his own. Even his own wife’s words eluded him and as hot streams of tears trailed down his cheeks, he didn’t bother stopping them. His mind was empty, as empty as the hole he stood before now. But it wasn’t empty was it? No, it lay home to a brilliant man, London’s finest, England’s only Consulting Detective. His best and closest friend.

                It should have been empty. God dammit it should have been empty! This six foot rectangle of a hole should never have needed to been dug. Sherlock shouldn’t be making home within its dirt walls.  It shouldn’t have to end like this. Why did it have to end like this? The man survived so much, he really was beginning to believe that he was a machine. He fell from several stories up and survived, he got shot in the torso and survived, so why the hell was this any different? Why did he pick the worst time in his life to be ordinary?

                He knew that this was final. That Sherlock Holmes wasn’t faking it, that he wasn’t coming back from this. As much as he wanted to wish he knew the truth. That this was final.

                Sherlock Holmes was dead.

                “John.”

                It took several moments for the man to even recognize his own name as he blinked a few times to turn and looked at his wife. Her face was tear stained and he wasn’t sure what was in her eyes. Sorrow? Pity? Concern? Maybe it was all three.

                “John, let’s go home.”

                John looked at her a moment before shaking his head.

                “I would like to stay a little longer.”

                Mary hesitated but then nodded. “Do you want me to stay?”

                When John didn’t answer, she gave him a kiss on the cheek stepped back a few paces to give him space, but still be there if he needed her.

                Several years ago, John had stood over what he believed to be the grave of his best friend. He gave a speech, a somewhat awkward one at that, but he wished for a miracle, for Sherlock to be his extraordinary self and pull off the impossible. Two years passed and just when John thought he had moved on, Sherlock answered.

                But now… now things were different. This was real this time. He believed it real the first time, but loosing Sherlock all over again, he didn’t know how he was supposed to deal with that. He had Mary, he had the child, but when your best friend dies for the second time in your life, how do you move on from that? And now, standing over his grave, what was he supposed to say? Pray for another miracle? There was no miracle to be had. Sherlock Holmes was dead and that was it.

                “I feel like I should say something,” the man finally started, looking up to the sky and blinking back further tears. “God, I need to say something, but you’ve heard it all before, haven’t you?” John gave a heavy and humorless laugh, laden with nerves. “The first time, you remember that? Oh, you really had me. But I’m not going to ask again Sherlock, not….not this time. Because this time it really is the end. I know that. I don’t want it to be. God of course I don’t. Who would want this? I don’t know if I’m okay. I don’t know if I ever will be. I mean, how the hell does a person go on with their life a second time? But I have Mary and Rebecca to look after, right?” He took a deep breath, biting his lip and forcing himself to continue. “I’ve said this before but you deserve to hear it one last time. You. Were. Amazing. Spectacular. Absolutely astonishing. You were the greatest man I have ever met and ever will meet and one last thing Sherlock, I hope you’re happy.”

                John turned away, unable to say those two words, the same words that Sherlock spoke just before the darkness overtook him forever. He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on breathing, only opening them when he felt Mary’s delicate hand grasp his. He looked over and gave her what he hoped was a comforting smile. When she tried to do the same, he knew he had failed as much as she had and together they headed back to the car.

                “Daddy? Is Uncle Sherlock still dead?”

                John sat down next to a tiny girl with blonde hair and blue-grey eyes. He looked from her to his wife, sorrow building in his eyes. How was he to explain to his four year old daughter that dead meant they were gone for good? It was a concept that she wouldn’t be able to understand, really she could be at home, playing with her dolls and remaining clueless. But even at such a young age, she recognized her parents grief, even if she didn’t understand it.

                “Daddy, why are you crying again? Is Uncle Sherlock done being dead now? I wanted to show him the picture I drew today.”

                She asked the questions like being dead was simply a game, one you played for a while to fool people and when you got bored, you stopped playing.

                “No Rebecca, he’s….Uncle Sherlock is not going to come back.”

                “You mean he can’t see my picture? But I drew it for him.” A pout pulled at her lip and the disappointment was a pickaxe to an already cracked ice wall. John shattered as he pulled his little girl close. He was never really one to cry, at least not the full onslaught of tears that often came with greif, but there in that car, surrounded by his daughter’s innocence and his wife’s warmth, he felt he had no other choice, and sobbing into Rebecca’s shoulder, holding her closer than he ever had before, he did just that.


	2. Back at the Beginning

_”Great Job once again Sherlock!” Lestrade’s face beamed like Sherlock was a son who had just won the big game._

_Of course, Sherlock didn’t seem to return the excitement as his face held nothing more than bland apathy._

_“It was only the usual. Nothing to get excited about, I could have solved it from the flat, but of course John insisted that I come out.”_

_“You hadn’t left the flat for two weeks Sherlock,” John attempted to explain for what seemed the 20 th time. Even after years of knowing the man, John found it amazing how some of the most menial things went right over his head._

_“And I was perfectly healthy doing so, there was no reason for me to leave without a decent case to hold my interest,” Sherlock countered, his head whipping over to look at John._

_The shorter man shook his head, raising a hand in surrender. “You know what, I’m not doing this anymore, I’m not going to argue with you.”_

_“That is probably wise,” Sherlock answered in a low tone._

_John ignored him and headed out to the street. “I’m heading home.”_

_It wasn’t long before he heard the crunch of footsteps behind him and soon Sherlock was standing next to him on the curb._

_“I’ll give you a ride home you know,” John said as Sherlock waved down a taxi._

_“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” he said as he frowned and waved again. He lowered his hand as he gave a light cough and had only started to raise it when he started coughing again, harder this time. It didn’t last long, but it was enough to have John worried, it didn’t sound good._

_“You okay?” he asked._

_Sherlock cleared his throat. “I’m fine John, it’s just a cough,” he answered as the cab pulled up to the curb._

_“Yeah, well, make sure you take care of that cough, alright?” the doctor said as he watched his friend climb into the car._

_Sherlock didn’t answer just gave him a look he couldn’t understand before closing the door._

_John watched the cab pull away before returning to his own car. Perhaps he would bring some cough syrup over later. He would have to make sure that Sherlock actually took it—_

                “John.”

                _\--Instead of using it for his experiments. He claimed once that it was much more interesting than wasting it on himself. Though he only said that for the first couple of days before his rare cold or flu got the best of him and he was practically—_

”John.”

_\--Begging him to run to the store and buy him something to help since he had used up all John had brought before on his experiments. With a half-hearted and annoyed ‘I told you so’, John would always make the trip. Though Sherlock got sick maybe once a year at most, John quickly learned to—_

“John Watson.”

                John blinked. While he had technically been awake through the whole memory, his alertness levels were low enough he might as well have just curled up in the chair and slept. He straightened up a little at looked at the woman sitting across from him expectantly.

                “You’ve been in here a little over fourty-five minutes and haven’t said a word John. You left and went someplace else.” She leaned forward and crossed her arms over the clipboard that rested in her lap. “Do you want to tell me where you went John?”

                John looked away, resting his elbow on the arm rest and his fingers against his cheek.

                “Nowhere. I didn’t go anywhere.” He answered, not looking over as the woman frowned and wrote a quick note.

                “And what about your blog?”

                When he didn’t answer there were a rustling of papers before she spoke again.

                “The last time you posted was three weeks ago after the funeral and all you said was ‘I’m sorry everyone, I can’t do this anymore.’”

                “I’m not suicidal,” he said once she let the sheets fall back to her clipboard.

                “I never said you were John,” she answered gently. “I told you to start the blog as a way of coping with everything you were going through when you came back from the war. Why don’t you try using it now to help cope with the loss?”

                “Because nobody wants to read it anymore.”

                There was the soft tap of the pen as she took another note. “I highly doubt that is the reason.”

                He finally turned to look at her. “Fine, you want to know the reason? Because too much has happened to me. Too much. That blog, it’s too much. Too much of… him.”

                The woman looked at him for a moment before nodding. “I understand. We’ll just give it some time, no need to rush,” she said as her hand moved quickly across the paper.

                “Why don’t we talk about Sherlock.”

                There was a visible twitch as John tensed and looked away. He took a moment to compose himself before looking back to his therapist, where she was just finishing up yet another note. Did she ever stop writing? She didn’t need to write down every eye blink. John fought back the frustration, the anger that threatened to spill and waited for her to continue. It’s not like he had anything to say.

                “It’s been over three weeks John and you still haven’t told me how he died.”

                “Yes I have.”

                “No John, you’ve told me that he jumped off the roof of Bart’s Hospital and fell to his death after an encounter with a dangerous criminal.”

                “Yes.”

                She let out a heavy sigh. “You can’t keep doing this John. Denying it isn’t going to bring him back.”

                “I’m not trying to bring him back.”

                “But you’re glorifying him. With such circumstances that surrounded Sherlock Holmes, you refuse to believe that something other than his dangerous lifestyle would take him. You want to remember him as a hero and I can understand that, but the sooner you can accept the truth John, the easier this will be on you.”

                John looked at her for a moment with sad empty eyes. “What if I don’t want it to be?” he asked.

                “You will eventually. You have a wife and daughter to look after after all.”

                He only nodded and she let out a sigh as she looked at the clock. “It looks like our time is up. I will see you again Friday at the usual time,” she said as she stood and walked with him to the door.

                “Alright. Thank you.”

                “Oh and John.”

                The man paused, turning to look at the woman looking at him with compassionate eyes.

                “Please try to work on the name? You’ve come so far already.”

                He gave a weak smile and nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Of course,” he said before leaving the room.

               Of course she would think he was doing better, he had been working for weeks on controlling the physical reaction, all the while the battering storm tearing into him from the inside was far from being healed. And at this point, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to reach it. The pain was a reminder of what he missed and letting that go… well, he didn’t really want to think about it. For now, he was fine living one day at a time, doing enough to keep his therapist happy.

                “How did it go?” Mary asked once he entered his home.

                “Fine, yeah fine,” he answered, giving her a smile and a kiss on the cheek.

                She smiled and did the same. “Any progress?” she asked.

                “Yeah, loads,” he said, stepping into the kitchen and searching the cupboards.

                “John.”

                John gave a heavy sigh, coming back into the sitting room with a bag of mixed nuts. “I had another one,” he said.

                Mary pouted her lip and tilted her head in a way that he had always found adorable. He still did, but it didn’t seem to faze him as much as it used to.

                “Another memory? What was it this time?”

                “After the Brooker case and I first saw the signs,” he answered, sitting down next to her on the couch and allowing her to snuggle into his side.

                “Oh honey, you didn’t know at the time,” she said softly. “None of us did.”

                “I know. I know that. But don’t you wish you could have done something different. Just one little thing to make it turn out different?”

                “All the time love, but you know we can’t, so why dwell?”

                “Because I can’t forget him.”

                She didn’t say anything to that only rested her head against his shoulder as he pulled her close. He relaxed into her constant warmth, letting it numb some of the pain without drowning out any of the memories. It was a miracle she was around, that he had chosen to keep her all those years ago. And he didn’t appreciate it more than these moments the past few weeks when she provided that grip to hold onto.

                “I love you.”

                And more than ever it was the truth.


End file.
